The Ineligible Bachelorette
by beeayy
Summary: In which our heroine Violet Merton meets Bertie Wooster.
1. Chapter 1

Ineligible Bachelorette

Chapter 1. Uncle Merton Gives an Ultimatum

"Violet, you simply must marry!"

Well—I mean to say! Not the sort of cheery subject to spring on a gi'l with a bit of a morning head and nothing to comfort her but a cup of tea. I don't mind telling you the delicate china trembled in my hand, and I felt a certain amount of Dante's hellfire playing upon my visage.

You see, Uncle Merton's declarative did not come altogether expectedly, though as soon as he mentioned it I regretted my lack of deductive capabilities. The obvious sign was that it wasn't like Uncle Merton to call on me first thing in the morning. Usually he waited until I had an evening free and leapt into my flat like a tiger, demanding I give him dinner and generally upsetting any plans I had for a lady's night out. He was one of those conservative chaps that fought the war for my sort and wasn't happy about the cavalier air of my demographic subcategory. He absolutely refused to see me in anything but a long skirt and my grandmother's jacket, and I wouldn't be surprised if he secretly ate old army boots and made his valet call him "commander". But he did give me my allowance, and being a well-bred sort of gi'l I did my best to respect the old eyesore. And now that he had spoken, the motive for his desire to see me bright and early on a perfectly good morning in May began to appear. The birds were chirping pretty enthusiastically in the rhododendrons outside Uncle Merty's study window, and there was a certain sort of whatsit in the air that makes every member of the indelicate sex start probing every teashop within twenty miles for unpaired females. A lady can't even venture outside without being harassed by two dozen men clamoring to offer their assistance down a step or through a door. It's enough to make even the most romantic lasses curse the very sight of spring flowers. I myself had been legging it pretty furtively from one knitting circle to another with my collar turned up, and I'd just narrowly managed to evade the bulk of the love-struck populus.

"Marry?" I ventured, taking a sip of tea to fortify myself, and I gave a light-hearted laugh. "My dear Uncle, whatever for?"

"What do you think for, gi'l? You ought to stop frittering your life away in craft circles and start a family!"

"Ah. Right." There was no doubt about it, Uncle Merty caught spring fever. The trick was, of course, to wriggle out of this nasty conversation without making him angry enough to threaten my allowance. Before the marriage business came up I had thought it would be a good time to gently ease in the idea that he might raise my allowance by a tenner or two a month. The old lemon hummed under my hat as I sought for a polite, but persuasive, reply. "Well—er—couldn't I just—"

"Pregnant!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said 'pregnant,' Violet, pay attention!" Uncle Merty's face had turned a trifle more pink, and he waved his arm in a northeasterly direction like a bosun giving the order. "Your cousin Ada is pregnant again! It's time you had a man saddled and started picking out colors for the baby rooms!"

"Uncle, please!" I said, coloring quite a lot myself.

"Come now, Violet, you'll have to face facts sooner or later. I'm old and feeble, you know!" He slammed his fist on his desk, making the lamp shake. "I can't go on taking care of you forever!"

"But—surely I can—"

"You'll have to marry, Violet, and that's that."

"What if—"

"Now, I think Mr. Forsythe is just the sort of lad for you," Uncle Merton continued. "He took you to the opera last week. Sensible, respectable chap. He works at the foreign office, you know—I'm sure that should please your adventurous side. And you know him quite well already, don't you?"

"Er, well, I suppose—" Mr. Forsythe was one of those clerks in British Foreign Affairs. You'd hope that an interesting job title like 'secretary to the secretary of the international syndicate' would make for interesting conversation during the twelve-hundred or so intermissions that seemed to plague opera from start to finish, but if my memory serves me the only bloody thing he could manage to say when I enquired about his work was 'Oh dear me, yes, I could tell you stories to make your hair stand on end! But if I told you, my dear, the foreign office would have to have you assassinated.'

Very true, no doubt. But when combined with a laugh that could impress a horse, Mr. Forsythe made an opera about the Hundred Years War seem just as long, if you understand me. A complete and utter bore.

It gave me an idea. "Well, it really depends, doesn't it?"

"On what?" Uncle Merton said. He was pouring himself another scotch.

"Well, you see, old-flesh-and-blood, that it's no good coaxing me to marry some blighted clerk from the West End by saying he's got an exciting job to keep me entertained on those long winter evenings, don't you know."

"What are you blithering about?"

"I'm not blithering, I'm only saying that working for the foreign office is not the great thing that novels make it out to be. The crux of the problem is that it's simply no good telling it on the mountaintops that you've got a cushy job with enemies of the free peoples making the job interesting if you can't even tell anyone about your adventures."

Uncle Merton blinked. My words appeared to have an effect on him. He wrinkled his expansive eyebrows until he was making the perfect impression of a walrus with a headache. "What?"

"Oh." My uncle wasn't what you'd call an intellectual. "Right."

He shook his head. "Please stop trying to confuse the issue, Violet. No, I'm quite settled on the matter. You will drive up to West End and throw yourself on his doorstep in a fit of love-crazed passion. Invite him to tea or something."

"But, Uncle-!"

"You will do this for me, child, or I'll have your allowance like that, and you'll have to go stay with your Aunt May in Lincolnshire."

"Oh, I say—really! I mean—there's nothing in Lincolnshire but a bunch of sheep!"

"Violet!"

"Oh—alright, alright. Alright?"

"Good gi'l. I'll tell Gerald to bring your car around. Lovely to see you, dear. Don't bother asking for money because you got your allowance last week. "

I stepped out of Uncle Merton's study. Have you ever felt like one of those women that get spirited away by fairies in the night, only to be left tottering on the hearth rug the next morning with bloodshot eyes and a vacant expression? Exhausted, don't you know, and a little foggy? It's just how I felt then.

"Oh, damn!"


	2. Chapter 2

Ineligible Bachelorette

Chapter 2. No Violets for Violet

I pressed down on the accelerator, and took considerable pleasure from nearly running over a group of boy scouts on my way back into London when I was sneezing. Besides the herds of love-starved fellows roaming about, the other reason I dislike spring is because I'm extremely vulnerable to flower pollen. One whiff of a rose and I sneeze like a perfect rabbit—a rabbit with hay fever, I mean. I'm told it's a perfectly harmless reaction and some of my kinder friends have told me it's an endearing sort of infirmity, but it's affected my psyche so much that I can't even stand the sight of a park in May. But threatening to damage humanity in the form of boy scouts made me feel a little better for the wrongs of my uncle, and I drove through London without menacing any more pedestrians.

I finally cut the ignition in front of Silhouettes, my favorite tea and bun shop, and wandered in, feeling a bit like Cleopatra when she knew her asp had arrived in the mail. I spotted Carlotta, a great pal of mine since childhood, sitting by the window, and I staggered over. She was ogling a couple of hats in a tailor shop across the street, but when she saw my hunted expression she cheesed it quickly.

"I say, Vi, you're looking rather peaky," Lotty said. "Coffee?"

I slithered into a seat. "My life is over, old crumb. I'm to be married."

"Oh!"

"What do you mean, 'Oh!'? It's certainly no good saying 'Oh!', because my Uncle Merton doesn't give a jellied eel for exclamations of any kind."

"Cheer up, Vi, it can't be so bad as that! Who's the lucky man?"

"Mr. Forsythe."

"Not Foreign Office Forsythe?" When I nodded, Lotty hailed the johnny behind the counter, making it very clear that a round of sherrys were called for. "Tell me all, scout."

I did so, trying to stay in the spirit of how I felt a half-hour ago, but Silhouettes' muffins make the blackest of clouds regain the jolly old silver lining.

"I'm sure you'll be introduced to him soon," I said, taking a gulp of the sherry. "We'll be having all sorts of engagement parties and things, I imagine. He does so like to _not_ talk about his job to other people that I'm sure he'll be hosting dinner parties from now until the wedding."

"What if Forsythe doesn't take? You could try acting cold."

"It doesn't matter how I act when he's around. Uncle Merton's got pots of money just waiting to dish out. Never had a son, you see—all he's got are daughters and nieces, and he's an absolute terror to every one of them. It's a complex, or something. Face it, Lotty, I'm in the soup unless you've got a brilliant scheme to—ahchoo!"

I took out a handkerchief and gave a dab to the nose.

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

Lotty pointed at my handkerchief. "There's something on your handkerchief."

I looked at it. "Oh! It's a violet. Isn't it droll? The shop said that they'd put embroidery on the first dozen for free if I ordered two and—so I got them."

Lotty had a wounded look in her eye. "Oh."

I pursed my lips. "Don't you like them, Lotty?"

"Hmmm."

"What do you mean, 'hmm'? They say it's very fashionable to have embroidered handkerchiefs!"

"Which 'they'? The Americans?"

"Oh, come off it, Lotty! I've already had two gi'ls tell me they were very interesting."

"Probably because they couldn't think of anything else to say."

"Enough about my handkerchiefs!" I stuffed it in my purse. "So? Are you going to help me, or not?"

"I'm sure once Mr. Forsythe sees those handkerchiefs, you won't need any help."

"_Lotty_!"

I gave a withering glare in order to make her see that this was no laughing matter, but the effect was lost on her, because sat up and stared out the window with a sharp cry.

"He's there!"

"What? What's the matter?"

"There, across the street! Look, be a good gi'l and pop off will you? I've got to do a bit of drawing."

"Drawing? What for?"

"Portrait drawing, if you must know. He only comes by this way once a week and I don't need you distracting me. I absolutely worship the man!" In an instant Alexandria had a fountain pen poised over her napkin, looking ready to take some poor blighter's likeness right down to the pimples. "If I only I had a camera! Then I could find out his name! He's the most handsome man you ever saw, Vi—an absolute angel!"

I tried to follow her gaze and catch a glimpse of this angel, but it appeared that one of the office buildings nearby just let out for lunch, and I couldn't see how she managed to pick one fellow out among the dozens streaming by on the opposite side of the street.

"Which one is he?" I asked, squinting.

"That one in the dark blue—no, you've missed him, he's gone behind that group there…." She scribbled madly on the napkin, but when she looked up again, she gave another sharp wail. "My God!"

"What now?"

"He's coming over here!"

I looked out the window again, and felt my mouth drop open, because I was met with the sight of Mr. Forsythe himself walking across the street towards the shop. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

"Oh, what if he comes in!" Lotty was squeaking, "If he comes in, you'll have to talk to him, you're so much better with men than I am—"

"Lotty, you perfect chump, that's Mr. Forsythe!"

And a moment later, the bell above the door jangled, and there he was. Mr. Edward Forsythe had the look of the secret service—his dark narrowed eyes flitted furtively from one end of the shop to the other, his tall body looking ready to pounce on an unsuspecting spy at any moment. Today his suspicious demeanor looked even more pronounced, and he didn't so much smile when he saw me as glare. He slithered over.

"Hallo, Violet," he said, when he was sure no one was going to pull a gun on him.

"Hallo!" I said, trying to be cheerful, "Won't you sit down, Edward? I haven't ordered yet."

"No, I'm too busy to stay."

He stood there, his eyes still shifting around the shop. People were beginning to stare.

Lotty cleared her throat in a marked manner. "I say—Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend, Violet, dear?"

"Er—this is Carlotta Sinclaire, Edward," I said. "We were at finishing school together."

"Pleased to meet you," Lotty said, and I could have sworn she batted her eyes at him.

"I had a partner named Sinclaire, once," Forsythe said, wistfully. "He turned out to be a spy."

"Oh!" Lotty said, apparently quite interested in Mr. Forsythe's eyes, "Really!"

"Oh, it's alright—that's declassified information," Forsythe said.

"Oh, I see! Very exciting, isn't it, Vi?"

We let the sounds of the shop filter in around us again, never a merrier party seen, I should think. Eventually Forsythe cleared his throat again.

"Violet? It's a—er—fine spring morning, don't you know. Would you mind, er, taking a turn with me around the—er, well, there's a park just past the square—I thought we could talk about things. You know."

I stared at the man. Was this the best that Britain's foreign office could produce? Subtlety and mild deception were apparently in the day-to-day job description. Yet the poor fish was shifting about from foot to foot in the most obvious state of nervousness I had ever seen. Still, if I was going to marry this blighter I had to be supportive.

"Yes, alright, Edward," I said, "Why don't you meet me outside? I'll just finish my tea."

He nodded, and crept off.

"Well, there you are, Lotty," I said. "Shiftiest little fellow I've ever seen. Can't imagine that you really saw much in him."

Lotty sighed. "Oh, Violet!" There was something rummy in the way she spoke. Sort of forlorn, don't you know.

"Lotty, you can't tell me that you're still potty about him now! Didn't you hear him talk? You said yourself he must be the most scurrying, self-centered fellow since Cassius!"

"Yes—well, I didn't know he looked like _that!_"

"Well, I'll tell you what, Lotty, if you can get him to break off our engagement, you can have him! Pip pip!"

I gathered up my things and trotted outside.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3. Of Black Beards and Pomeranians_

"I've just talked to your Uncle Merton," Forsythe said as I approached. He was smoking a cigarette in a manner I could only describe as swarthy. There was some serious game afoot, from the looks of it. I treaded carefully.

"Oh?" I said, with a bit of a laugh. "What did he say?"

"He's—er—given me permission to marry you. If you like."

"Ah!" I must say would have appreciated a tad more emotion from the man, but he seemed decidedly pipped, and I didn't want to upset the old boy. "Yes, well—rather! I mean, just as you like, dearest."

"Right."

He puffed a bit more, threw the cigarette away, and started another.

"When did you want to get married, dear?" I asked.

"Hmm? Oh, I don't know. I'll have to check with the office."

"Ah. Right."

"Sorry I haven't gotten you a ring."

"Oh, that's alright."

I watched as he smoked, a tad surprised that he was already through his second cigarette. It was probably very healthy. "I wonder if we might have the honeymoon in the South," I said, "Would the office let you off for a week or two? And then we might find a little flat somewhere nearby, wouldn't want to go too far out of the way, unless you liked the country. I don't dislike the country, mind you, but it can be a little dull. I had a friend who lived in the country, once. Didn't see her for five years, and it turns out that she was cooped up in Wheatley all that time painting chickens. You won't mind if I leave chickens out of the kitchen décor, do you? We'll find a place with a small kitchen and you won't even notice.…"

Which is certainly a lot for me to say in one go, because I'm usually interrupted before I can string a decent soliloquy together, and since Forsythe didn't seem to be brimming with conversation I carpe'ed the diem. Eventually, I was interrupted, and in the middle of a very interesting thought I'd been entertaining on a unique color scheme for kitchen curtains, when Forsythe threw down his tenth cigarette in a huff.

"Dispense with this talk of curtains, Violet!" he said, which at least showed he was listening.

I courteously dispensed. "Something up, dearest?"

"Something jolly well is! Only I can't tell you."

"Ah. Right."

We stood in silence for a while.

"Blast!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Nothing!"

And the soupy silence recommensed. I didn't mind that much. Moments of silence in the presence of Forsythe were truly golden.

"Violet?"

"Still here, old chap of mine."

"I wonder if you might—do me a favor. Can't tell you what it is, of course."

"Oh."

These pauses were beginning to grow on me. I amused myself by watching pigeons across street.

"Well?" he demanded. "Will you or not?"

"But—my dearest crumb, you haven't told me—"

"Do you see that man over there?"

"Where?"

"There!"

"Can you point him out?"

"Of course not! He'd spot me! He's got great big glasses and a black beard. There he is, across the square—don't look now!...Alright, look! Ah, you missed him!"

I pursed my lips. This was seeming to get a bit thick to me, so I played along. "Oh, I saw him."

"Good! Now, he's liable to come back into the square at any moment. When you see his Pomeranian—"

"What?"

"The Pomeranian—that little dog he had with him."

I didn't, of course, see the man, and I certainly didn't see his beastly dog, but I didn't want to appear thick. After all, this might be just the sort of thing that would induce my fiancée to consider me a true confidante in his most secret foreign office duties. I nodded with all the wisdom of Soloman. "Ah, yes, I see…" I said, and gave my chin a scratch for added effect. "Of course! It's all so simple now!"

"What is?"

"Well—you know. The Pomeranian."

He smiled, though it seemed a little forced, and took my hand. "Violet, dearest, please try to pay attention to what I'm saying for five seconds. Do you think you can do that for me, my love?"

"Yes, of course!"

"You see, the man—you remember the man, dear? The man with the Pomeranian?—well, he has the Pomeranian for a very dastardly purpose. By dastardly I mean very bad indeed. Darling, do you see what I mean? I can't tell you what it is, but you must trust me, darling."

I wasn't altogether pleased with his condescending manner, but I gave another one of my knowing nods.

"Don't look at me like that! It's perfectly simple! All you do is, when he comes back, simply pretend that you dropped something, and when you stoop to pick it up, you just put the dog in your handbag."

"Put a dog in my handbag? Have you gone mad?"

"Oh, don't be a stick, Violet—its very fashionable in America to put dogs in your purse. That monstrosity you've got on your arm could hold ten of the little blighters."

"But—but really, I can't just go into a crowded park and steal a man's dog! I'd be thrown in the jug for sure!"

"You won't get caught if you do it properly! The man's probably blind as a bat anyway."

"Darling, you know I'd do anything for you within reason, but—"

"But you said you'd do me a favor! It won't take ten minutes of your time. I'll bring the car around and be here to collect the little chap once you've got him." He folded his arms smugly. "Not any worse than anything you did at that school you went to."

"That was never proven!" I said, before I could stop myself. I looked down at my shoes. "Anyway, I was young then. I mean, stealing's not kindly looked on in the magistrate's office, you know…"

"Violet, if you're going to refuse me this one little thing I ask, I just don't know what our marriage is going to be like! I'll certainly never let you borrow the car."

"_Borrow_ the car? I'm the one with a car, my lad, not you!"

"It'll be my car when we're married, anyway, and if you can't do something so simple as scoop a helpless dog into your purse—"

"But, Harry, darling-!"

"Don't 'Harry darling' me! Will you or will you not do this little favor for me?"

"Yes, yes, alright!"

"Splendid, old girl, I knew you'd pull through! I'll buy you a proper engagement ring for this, I really will!"

"Hmm."

"Anyway, you give me the keys to your car, and I'll drive 'round and pick you up as soon as you've snatched the little fellow, alright?"

I said no more to him, hoping to give him the silent treatment as I nonchalantly handed him the keys.

"Harry?"

"Yes, darling?"

"You're an ass!"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4. The Old School Ties

You know those romances, where the leading lady is able to sneak up on her darling in the crowded park, spring on him and give him a kiss while he's still wondering how the blazes she got there without his noticing? Believe me, it's harder than it looks. Take this bearded blighter, for instance. He was wearing a hat and dark glasses, and I couldn't tell whether he saw me or not. Not very good for the thieving morale, you understand, and I was feeling a little knock-kneed. I approached anyway, hoping, I suppose, to engage him in conversation and possibly magic the dog into my purse with a casual wave of the hand. I 'm not terribly shy as a rule, and in general I seem to get on with pretty much everyone, but the rummy thing was that I spoke up he didn't say a word to me.

"Hallo," I said. "Nice day, what?"

He just glared at me with a withering sort of glance (at least I thought it was withering, couldn't really tell with the dark glasses) and turned away, looking as if he wanted to condemn all nice days for all eternity. A real cold shoulder. I was just beginning to wonder if I ought to give him a punch up the bracket, just to see if he'd notice, when I thought up a brilliant idea.

"I say—there's someone over there trying to get your attention."

"What? Where?"

"You can't miss him," I continued as he turned and looked expectantly into the crowd. "See, that man in the hat—he was waving at you a moment ago."

"I don't see him!" the man insisted, sounding somewhat put-upon.

"You're looking right at him."

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"How can I be looking right at him if he's not really there?"

I could have had a large afternoon with this kind of things, but I remembered my duty, and set about getting the Pomeranian into my handbag. The little chap seemed happy to go, and I don't blame him. Harry was right—it was the easiest thing in the world to get him to leap in my purse, and, when closed, it concealed him entirely. I continued the conversation as I backed carefully away.

I got about ten feet, and was feeling pretty sure of myself, when I felt a tug at my elbow. I thought for a moment that some zealous bluebottle had caught me, and that I was done for, when I realized that I had simply not unhooked the lead from the canine's collar. Another girl might not have looked at this as any great thing—a tried and true dog-napper would probably have remembered to unhook the blighter nonchalantly then and there. But, as I said, I was a little rattled. I frantically rummaged in my purse to see if I could get loose.

"It's no good you tugging," the bearded man was saying, with waning patience, "I don't see him."

The bag was a little more capacious than I had heretofore realized, you see, and finding the little blighter's collar among the lipsticks and hairpins was certainly difficult. The bearded man began to turn around, and I seriously considered dropping the purse and legging it for the nearest cab, when I was spun back around by a sharp tug at my shoulder, and I ran into a tall, blonde-ish sort of johnny who had accidentally ran into the dog's lead. He was wearing a colorful tie in the Eton school colors, which, unfortunately, brought to the onlooker's attention to just how little chin the man had.

At least he was better to look at than the bearded man, who had also been whipped around and had his dark glasses knocked askew. He was glaring at me in a manner similar to an Alaskan grizzly staring down a particularly tricky salmon.

"I say!"

"Oh, pardon me!-"

"What? What?"

I finally found the clasp to the dog's collar, and I disappeared into the crowd as I heard the fellow shout, "Sorry, miss!"

[A/N: sorry for the long hiatus, hopefully I'll be getting back into this one. you can probably guess who the blonde haired guy is (Bertie)-don't worry, he will show up more in the next chapter and be there for the rest of the story!]


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